


fly true

by Siria



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-06-16
Updated: 2012-06-16
Packaged: 2017-11-07 21:55:59
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 672
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/435872
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Siria/pseuds/Siria
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Clint's sitting at a table in the SHIELD commissary, a cup of acidic coffee cooling at his elbow while he works his way through his quiver of arrows, checking the fletching on each one.</p>
            </blockquote>





	fly true

**Author's Note:**

  * For [polarisnorth](https://archiveofourown.org/users/polarisnorth/gifts).



> Written to a prompt by polarisnorth, who wanted some Clint and Tony interaction post-movie. Thanks to sheafrotherdon for betaing!

Clint's sitting at a table in the SHIELD commissary, a cup of acidic coffee cooling at his elbow while he works his way through his quiver of arrows, checking the fletching on each one. It's easy, methodical work, and Clint welcomes it. If he focuses on the movements of his hands, he doesn't have to think; if he doesn't have to think, he doesn't have to remember the low, insistent whisper of Loki's voice in his head; if he works, then maybe he can be useful. 

He's got three more to go when Stark puts the bottle down on the table in front of him. Clint glances over at it, then back down at his work. "Fifty year old Glenfiddich isn't cheap." 

"Your point being?" Stark says. 

Clint looks up at him then and raises an eyebrow. It's an expression he learned from Natasha; maybe he'll never be able to use it with her precision, but he can still make it work. "That's a bottle of Glenfiddich and it's nine in the morning."

Stark stares back. Clint's not sure how the man manages to make blankness look sardonic, but he does. "Should I repeat that part where I query your entire point? Because—"

Clint picks up another arrow. "Never saw much point in looking for solutions at the bottom of a bottle." 

"No," Stark says. He reaches out and picks up one of the finished arrows, balances it on the pad of an index finger. "You have an entirely different methodology, don't you?"

Clint looks up sharply, anger like a weighty, living thing behind his breastbone. He's a moment away from snapping back at Stark, or punching him, but then he sees that the look on Stark's face isn't snide or malicious. He's thoughtful, looking at Clint as if he's weighing him up just as easily as he's getting a sense of the arrow's heft. Clint's anger fades as swiftly as it came, but he still feels uneasy, exposed in a way that feels unnatural for a sniper.

Stark snorts at whatever he sees in Clint's face. "Hey, I don't judge. I _assess_ , but I don't judge. Hypocrisy isn't my style—if you want a character reference, you can ask Pepper. She'd be delighted to tell you all about the time that _Us Weekly_ caught me with my pants—"

"Thanks," Clint says, because in his own way, Stark's being kind, and Clint knows enough about the guy's history to know why that should be a surprise. After the last couple of days spent getting to know him, however, maybe it isn't so much. He gestures at the bottle. "I still don't, though. Not on the job."

Stark very pointedly doesn't state that it's nine on a Tuesday morning and that the Avengers haven't been called up in two weeks; that it's the kind of slow news week that's had cable news people wishing for an attack on Manhattan and allowed a couple of SHIELD operatives to actually use some of their vacation days. SHIELD agents might always be on duty but they're sometimes off the clock. Clint, however, is still feeling the effects of the battle's adrenaline rush, isn't quite sure when he last slept. 

"Okay, fair enough," is all Stark says. He uncaps the bottle and pours a healthy finger or two of it for himself. "So I was thinking, about those arrows you're using, have you ever considered modifying the explosive charge to take advantage of the new alloys that Stark Industries just patented? Because it could give you at least a 12% bump on your range, and if you combine that with—"

He chatters on, digging a piece of paper out of his oil-stained jeans pocket and scribbling schematics on it, getting Clint's input and modifying things as he goes. The design's crude at this point, rough, but Clint sees how it could be made to fly true—for the first time in a while, lets himself think that there might really be a way he can fight back.


End file.
